


stray sod

by bookhobbit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fairy Bargains, Gen, Guilt, temporary major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 12:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16086599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: When Lady Pole sets out to shoot Mr Norrell, Childermass arrives just a moment too late to save him. That is, a moment to late to stop him from dying. There may still be a way to save him.





	stray sod

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to warn this as "major character death" because it's not, uh, permanent, but...y'know. Please forgive me the lack of chapters.

9-11 January 1816

The house in Hanover Square was silent for three days after Gilbert Norrell died.

The first day, all the servants were sent home. All the servants, that is, save John Childermass. For it was he who sent them, promising they'd be paid for time off, assuring each one that he would arrange matters. They noticed the haggard lines on his face, the deep shadows under his eyes, but after all, all of them were in shock. Even Childermass must be distressed in such circumstances.

The second day, the house was locked. Callers came to mourn and pay respects, but they found no one to greet them and no one to turn them away. The doors stayed silent and solid as a tomb. A fog descended on London, and so they could not even look in the windows. If they had, they would have seen a solitary figure stirring. They would have seen him paging through books, making notes, with the methodical care he devoted to everything important. They would have seen him smoke pipe after pipe, drink cup after cup of coffee and strong tea, eating little. Were they close enough, they would notice the wildness of his hair and the fierceness of his expression. They would, perhaps, have been frightened.

The third day, any watcher would have been even more alarmed. There was an ill spirit about the house, a feeling as though it had gone Somewhere Else in the night and brought back something unclean, unsafe. There were candles showing faintly in the windows like will o' the wisps. There were movements of curtains unaccompanied by any earthly wind.

Towards evening, the alarm of this imaginary watcher would have reached its peak. For in the house, the house locked tight now for three days, the empty house which should have contained only John Childermass and the body of Gilbert Norrell -- inside the house, two figures were moving.

On the fourth day, the doors unlocked. The crowds who thronged around the house, waiting for news, watched as Mr Norrell walked out of the house on his own two feet, leaning on Childermass's arm.

He was the same as he had always been: dry, dull, and thoroughly unmagicianlike. Death had not made him more interesting. He assured the crowds that he had not been dead at all, not truly, only at death's door. He explained that a French spy had attempted to murder him, and indeed had come within an inch of doing so. Childermass, he said, had sent away all the servants and sat by his bedside, nursing him back to consciousness.

He made all of this, somehow, sound as exciting as a recitation from a history lesson.

The crowds supposed it must be true if he was unchanged as all that. Lady Pole, after all, had become fascinating after her resurrection. Mr Norrell could not possibly have died and stayed so tedious. Besides, who would have brought him back? Mr Strange was well known not to be in London, and the house had been locked. With this revelation, and the announcement that Mr Norrell was very tired and would like to rest, most of them dispersed.

No one asked themselves why the house on Hanover Square still had the strange restless spirit that had emerged on the third day. It did not seem important.

-

12 January 1816

When Childermass entered the library, Mr Norrell was there just as usual, despite the fact that he should have been resting still. He seemed to anticipate this complaint, because he said "I am perfectly strong," as Childermass came in.

"You've been doing magic," said Childermass. He could feel the tang of it in the air. It was not Mr Norrell's magic any more. Mr Norrell's magic tasted of old books and smelled of firelight and new-cut grass. This was heather and snow and a strange low humming that never quite reached your ears.

"At least I can still do magic, I suppose," said Mr Norrell. "No one save you and Mr Strange are likely to notice the change, and Mr Strange is not here. Childermass?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Why did you bring me back to life?"

Childermass gave this question very careful consideration. He had been asking it of himself, too. The hazards had been many and the chance of success slim, but he had never once questioned the decision. He did not now.

It was his job to protect Mr Norrell. It was his job to go about doing Mr Norrell's bidding, even when there might be hazards. It was his job to shield Mr Norrell, to advise Mr Norrell, to keep him safe. It had been his job for some twenty years. And he had failed, because he had been one moment too late. A world without Mr Norrell was possible to contemplate, but for that world to be Childermass's fault was unthinkable. And besides...the king had not come home.

"Because you are not finished restoring English magic, sir," he said.

Mr Norrell nodded slowly. He seemed suddenly even more tired, but sleep would, they both knew, offer no respite. Childermass felt helpless to assist him, and Childermass did not like feeling helpless.

-

8 January 1816

Mr Norrell took his time about dying, as he did about everything. This left ample time for Childermass to consider his failure.

Childermass had very few failures; he was accustomed to success, even at great cost. It was a bitter surprize that he would stop being successful now, exactly at the moment where it counted, the moment when it counted more than any thing else he had ever done in Mr Norrell's service.

He had tried to step in front of the lady in black and take hold of the gun. He had been just one moment too late.

When it was very clear that nothing more could be done, Childermass sent the doctors away. He did not want Mr Norrell to die like that, hovered over as crows will hover over a battlefield, waiting for carrion. Mr Norrell would want peace and quiet. He barred the other servants from the room, and bade them turn away any visitors.

In the chair beside the bed, he listened to Mr Norrell's breathing rattle, and held one of his hands. Someone had to. The wound had been in his chest; it had, the doctors said, missed his heart, but hit his lung. He would die, and there was nothing to do.

There was nothing to do, except, perhaps--

Perhaps--

Childermass wanted to go to Mr Norrell's study and find his notes, but he did not dare leave. Having failed to protect Mr Norrell in life, he did not want to let him die alone.

Mr Norrell's breathing became shallower, and more ragged. His hand in Childermass's was very cold. It could, perhaps, be any moment now.

Mr Norrell had not been a good man. He had not even been a likable scoundrel. He had been selfish, and secretive, and solitary. Some might say he was not worth grieving over.

One last breath, a wet and rattling exhale. Then Mr Norrell's chest stilled, his body went limp. Childermass watched every moment. There was nothing else to do, except, perhaps--

Some might say Mr Norrell was not worth grieving over. Childermass did not think himself one of them.

He placed the small cold hand back on the bed with the utmost care, and went to find Mr Norrell's notes.

-

13 January 1816

Jonathan Strange arrived late in the afternoon on the fifth day after Mr Norrell had died. He drove straight up to Hanover Square and lept out of the coach, looking unshaven and furious. He pushed past Davey, who was presently guarding the door. He stopped in the hall to ask if Childermass was in, and, receiving an assent, blundered through the house calling for him.

In short order, Childermass appeared, accompanied by Mr Norrell himself.

Strange looked at him, turned as white as Mr Norrell himself had been five days ago, and clutched the banister for support. He looked, Childermass noticed, as though he had not slept in days. His hair was uncombed, and his face grey and unshaven. He was dressed in mourning -- was that for Mr Norrell?

"Sir," he said, "I had heard news that you were dead."

"A mere rumour," said Mr Norrell. "A French spy shot me, but Childermass saw me through the worst of it with his usual competence."

Strange looked at Childermass, and then back at Mr Norrell. He seemed to settle, with some difficulty. "I...see. I apologise for intruding into your household so rudely, then, sir. I was...somewhat overcome."

Only the tiniest flicker of emotion showed on Mr Norrell's face. Again Childermass felt that pull of wrongness, that sense of disorientation. This was hardly Mr Norrell at all. He saw now what the fairy meant by half a life. Mr Norrell ought to have been delighted that his erstwhile pupil had cared so much to hear of his death.

"I am glad to be able to reassure you," was all Mr Norrell said. "Would you like to stay?"

"Er, yes," said Strange, still sounding off-balance. "Yes. Thank you. Childermass, may I speak to you for a moment first, about the coach?"

"Of course, sir."

It was not, of course, about the coach. Strange's hand was hard on Childermass's arm as he pulled him aside. "Is he well?" he asked.

"He was shot near the heart just these five days ago," said Childermass dryly.

Strange's face was sharp. "And yes, how odd. I knew many men who had been shot in the Peninsula, and none of them behaved like that five days after nearly dying. He should be abed! What is really going on, Childermass?"

Childermass looked at Strange for a long moment. His worry seemed genuine. Well, someone would have to help Childermass, then, and it would not be Lascelles. "I brought him back," he said.

-

11 January 1816

The room was cold. Childermass had opened all the windows, so that the body would stay fresh, and the February air had stolen all warmth. It seemed even colder as the candles flickered and went out. For a moment, Childermass thought he had been cheated, for Mr Norrell was so very still.

Slowly, a little colour crept back into his cheeks, and his eyes opened. He blinked rapidly, sat up against the pillows, looked around, and said, "What did the fairy ask for?"

"Half your life," said Childermass.

"I thought so," said Mr Norrell. He looked around. "The house is very empty."

"I sent everyone home."

"I see. That was wise of you. Tell me, was the fairy a gentleman with hair like thistledown and a green coat?"

"Yes," said Childermass.

"I thought so," said Mr Norrell again. "I made the same mistake. My nights will not be very restful presently, I suspect, but perhaps being spirited away to his land will give me some insight I did not have before.

"Spirited away? Will he take you every night?"

Mr Norrell made a vague noise. "It is, of course, the same mistake I made. I suppose I cannot deny now that you are a magician in your own right, for their is no thing that unifies magicians like magic that runs away with them."

A string of horror thrummed in Childermass. That was not what Mr Norrell would have said. Not with that cold, indifferent tone, that tone of inexpressible weariness. He ought to have been embarrassed, or sulky, or frightened. And Childermass did not like the talk of being spirited away, although he could guess what it meant. "Sir?" he said.

"It does not matter now," said Mr Norrell. "Nothing particularly matters. Here, help me up."

The ring finger was gone from his left hand. This did not seem to surprize him.

-

13 January 1816

The expression of extreme surprize on Strange's face was equal parts gratifying and annoying, but there was no time to dwell on either. Childermass took Strange to a guest room himself, to have the time for talking.

"He did die, then."

"Of course he died. He was shot in the chest. There was nothing to be done."

"Except what you did," said Strange, a little mockingly, perhaps because he was disconcerted. "It was a French spy, then, I suppose?"

"No, it was Lady Pole." A useful lie, the French spy story, in that it served the government's purpose and was likely to be accepted by those members of Parliament who did not know what was really happening. But if Strange was to help, he would need to know the truth.

Strange took a deep breath. "Lady Pole. Why?"

Childermass stopt speaking for a moment under the pretense of fiddling with the door to the room he wanted. To tell Strange or not to tell? Well, at this stage, Mr Norrell was not likely to care. "I believe it is because when Mr Norrell brought her back to life, a fairy began to spirit her away at night as payment. I believe the same one may be doing the same to Mr Norrell."

"Fairies!" said Strange, eyes widening. The two of them ducked into the guest room, and Childermass shut the door.

Even speaking of it brought back the horror of that night, the feeling that his every move was being watched. Childermass stopt himself from shivering only with effort, and drew the curtains closed as well. "Yes, fairies. It's only fairies can bring the dead back to life."

"I beg to differ," said Strange, "In the Peninsula I--"

" _Properly_ back to life," said Childermass. "Not to undeath."

Strange subsided, but then roused again. "You mean to tell me that all of his 'we must be extremely careful about fairies, Mr Strange, they are not to be trusted, their magic is dangerous and should be used only in the direst of circumstances'"-- Strange's impression of Norrell was disconcertingly accurate -- "was from personal experience?"

"Well, he was right at that."

"But you used it." Strange's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Childermass looked at him coolly. He did not intend to give Jonathan bloody Strange any hint as to why he might consider Norrell worth risking fairy magic to bring back. "Why do you think?"

Strange seemed satisfied with this, although God only knew what he thought Childermass had meant. "But how? What is the form? I had been trying to discover it after Arabella--" This last thought he cut off abruptly, hiding his face by turning towards the curtains.

Childermass remembered that Strange's wife was dead just this past fortnight; that was what the mourning dress was for. When had he left Shropshire? What had he been feeling, his wife a week dead, thinking the only other magician in England was dead now too?

No wonder he had been so wild.

"I am not going to tell you yet," said Childermass. "Here is what you need to know." Quickly and clearly he laid out the circumstances under which Mr Norrell had got himself shot, and the strange way he had been acting ever since. He laid out the mysterious comment Mr Norrell had made about being spirited away.

"We must spirit him back, then," said Strange immediately. Childermass was not sure whether to be amused by the speed with which he lept to Mr Norrell's aid, given their current rivalry.

"You get yourself settled in," said Childermass. "Stay as long as you can--have you affairs back in Shropshire to see to?"

Strange smiled a smile with glass in it. "No. I believe I would rather not be there just now, in fact. It is so much easier to avoid--well."

"Stay, then. I will speak to Mr Norrell of what we have discussed."

"Won't he be angry you have told me?"

"He will not be any thing; he never is now. That, you see, is the curse."

-

13 January 1816

Mr Norrell woke, and found himself in a castle. Somewhere, there was music playing, music such as he had never heard before. It echoed through him, the high notes swelling to unease, the low notes dropping to despair.

The fog between him and the waking world seemed to have disappeared in this place. No wonder Lady Pole was so listless, he thought, if that was how she had felt for all this time. No wonder she had tried to murder him to end it.

Feeling rushed back into him and sent pain like a sleeping limb waking up all through him. He looked around, and found that the mansion was tumbledown and ragged. Though fine curtains draped the windows, they were dirty and torn. Though jeweled mirrors and rich paintings adorned the walls, they were dull and dust-smeared.

"There you are," said the gentleman with the thistle-down hair.

Mr Norrell turned. The gentleman with the thistle-down hair was dressed as if for a ball, in silk and lace. In the dim light of the mansion, he looked carved from silver and ivory and emerald, as fine as his mansion and, perhaps, beneath the beauty, as ruinous.

"You are to begin your duties at once," said the gentleman with the thistle-down hair.

"My duties?"

"Scrubbing the mansion, of course. You surely did not think I brought you here for the pleasure of your company. None of my servants are so lowly that I would order them to clean the dust from windows. You, however, are quite suited for the task."

"I do not know how," said Mr Norrell.

"You will learn," said the gentleman with the thistle-down hair, and wandered off. Mr Norrell found that there was a bucket and some cloths beside him, and very mundane objects they seemed in this atmosphere of grand decay. He looked around himself. There was no one to rescue him. There was no one to speak to. There was nothing except the ringing silence of the mansion, and the faint sound of music drifting through the air.

The music was coming from a dance. Mr Norrell found himself drawn inexorably towards it, as he moved through the mansion polishing and scrubbing. Soon he was inside the antechamber, taking guest's cloaks and hanging them carefully. He did not know how he knew to do this; his body seemed beyond his control. He could not stop himself.

A familiar face passed him, though without a cloak. He frowned: where had he seen it before? Ah, yes. Sir Walter Pole's house. What was Sir Walter Pole's butler doing here, in a fairy's mansion? He scarcely had time to wonder before he began to hang more cloaks.

Presently, the crush of guests eased. He found his body under his own control again, for a moment. And in that moment, Lady Pole passed.

She seemed to shimmer into appearance and resolve into her own shape gradually, if she was walking through fog. Mr Norrell gasped and she turned to him. Her face seemed carved from stone, until the moment she recognized him. Then it was stretched into an expression of fearful rage.

"You!" she said, advancing on him.

"My lady," said Mr Norrell, wondering if he could die in Faerie.

"I shot you!"

"Indeed, you did," said Mr Norrell rather coolly. "My lady, if we might work together, we might, perhaps, find some means of escape."

Lady Pole made a noise of disgust. "I should have known that if I shot you you would find some other way to torment me. I do not want to work with you; I never wish to speak to another magician again. Leave me be. My nights are bad enough without you in them. And don't even think of speaking to Mrs Strange!"

Then she was gone. Speaking to Mrs Strange? Mrs Strange was dead; they had had news of it not very long ago. Well, there were links between Faeries and the dead. Mr Norrell looked around him, and found his bucket and rags at hand again. The music was starting up again. He began to move.

-

14 January 1816

Childermass stepped quietly on the soft carpet of Mr Norrell's bedroom. He was not awake yet, but he would be soon. If it was nights he was being stolen away, Childermass wanted to see how he woke. Besides, Mr Lascelles would never come into Mr Norrell's bedroom, he did not have the right, and Childermass wanted to be sure of speaking to Mr Norrell alone.

In the chair beside the bed, he watched Mr Norrell's face. It was twisted into fear, as if he was having a nightmare, but his body was perfectly still. His hands were folded on the pillow beside his face. The absent ring-finger seemed to give him no pain.

At length, he woke. His eyes opened slowly and he blinked a little, and looked around.

"What are you doing here, Childermass?" he asked.

"Mr Strange begged my to inform you that he would stay for some little while, on account of your condition. He wishes to help. I have told him all I know about Lady Pole."

Childermass half-hoped this would generate some response of anger or fear, some sign that this was still Mr Norrell, but it did not. Indeed, it scarcely seemed to be noticed at all.

"Of course. It is curious," said Mr Norrell thoughtfully. "I did not enchant Sir Walter Pole's butler, you know."

"What?" said Childermass. "What of him?"

Mr Norrell opened his mouth, frowned, coughed a little. He said, "In the seventh century A.D. there was a man who wished to find Merlin. He called up a fairy to tell him where Merlin was, but the fairy did not know -- or so he said."

This was so like the beginning of one of Mr Norrell's irrelevant lectures that Childermass did not, at first, notice that anything was wrong. But the tone was too strange, too strained. Mr Norrell stopt and touched his own mouth, an expression of despair settling onto his face.

"Why did you ask for secrecy?" he whispered.

"I did not," said Childermass. "There did not seem any point."

"Then it is my own request," Mr Norrell said, half to himself. "My own design. Turned against me."

"Sir?"

"I cannot speak of it. I wish I could, but I cannot. It will turn to fairy-stories in my mouth."

Childermass remembered with an awful, sickening chill that Lady Pole was rumoured about town to spout the direst nonsense, all about fairies and magicians and the Raven King and Julius Caesar, whenever any one asked her what was wrong.

In the firelit study, he fancied for just a moment that he saw two Mr Norrells: one sitting quietly and composedly up in his bed, and one hunched in terror beside him, dressed in a servant's livery and pounding frantically as if he was trapped in a glass case. Then the vision was gone.

Perhaps he had not saved Mr Norrell at all.

-

14 January 1816

"He cannot stay!" said Lascelles, slamming a hand down on the desk. It seemed to be an automatic attempt to intimidate Childermass, although it had never worked before.

"Mr Norrell says he can," said Childermass, deliberately not looking up from the accounts.

"He is Mr Norrell's enemy!"

"Not right now," said Childermass, noting a slight discrepancy and then recognizing that he had merely written a 2, rather than a 7. "Right now, he is helping Mr Norrell with his duties during his period of convalescence."

"Mr Norrell has me!"

"You cannot do magic," said Childermass. He allowed some small measure of his satisfaction at this observation to creep into his voice, because he knew it would vex Lascelles. And, indeed, Lascelles reddened. He was normally much more subtle than this, but he had been exceptionally angry at Childermass ever since Childermass had not let him in during those three days after Mr Norrell had been shot.

It had not looked good that Mr Norrell's closest adviser had not been there while Mr Norrell was on the brink of death. Childermass could not rightly say that he hadn't considered this when he'd made his hasty plan.

"I shall ask Mr Norrell himself," said Lascelles. "We will see what he says."

"Aye, we will, particularly as I have already told him."

Lascelles hurried out to speak to Mr Norrell. Through the doors, Childermass heard their voices:

"--must not be aware that Childermass has asked Strange to stay. You must not allow this, sir. You cannot trust one who would betray you by slandering your name in writing."

Mr Norrell's voice, very tired and dull: "Mr Strange is assisting me with my duties."

"Sir, I am of course willing to offer any necessary help until you are quite recovered."

"You are not a magician."

Childermass smiled a long sideways smile and made another note on the account-book.

"But he's sure to betray you in the end. You must recognize that."

"It does not matter very much." The smile disappeared off Childermass's face as he heard the flatness of that reply, the lack of fear in it. "I am sure you will be watchful."

"Of course," said Lascelles, "But there is only so much I can do."

"It will not be long, I am sure," murmured Mr Norrell.

Lascelles came back to Childermass to ask, "What have you done to him?"

"Saved his life, which is more than you can say."

"You know that isn't what I meant. He is not himself."

"No," said Childermass, "Well, he's still very weak. He nearly died."

"If you had been faster off the mark, perhaps he need not have come so close."

With some effort, Childermass controlled his anger. He wouldn't have Lascelles see his shot had landed. "I didn't see you throwing yourself in front of the bullet. I didn't see you anywhere near it."

Lascelles pressed his lips into a thin line and sneered. "Rescuing him from danger is a job for someone whose body is more useful than his brain."

Childermass went on doing the accounts in a pointed fashion. Lascelles departed with the air of one who has managed a parting shot.

After he had gone, Childermass put his pen down and took a long breath. For, though he hated to admit it, Lascelles had been right: if he had been faster, Mr Norrell would not have died.

-

15 January 1816

Mr Norrell felt himself drawn towards the cloakroom again, and prepared for another long and crowded hour or two of taking cloaks and coats. Stephen Black came in with one this time, a quiet black well-made greatcoat, and Mr Norrell felt his hands gentle of their own accord and tuck it as near to the back wardrobe, away from the others. Stephen Black must be, by the gentleman with the thistle-down hair's lights, an exceedingly favored guest, to have even his cloak treated regally.

For the first time, Mr Norrell paused to wonder what being the guest of honour at a fairy-ball must be like. Stephen Black did not look as though he enjoyed it; he looked hopeless. He wondered if the dancers danced because they wanted to, or because, like him, their bodies moved like puppets, compelled. He shivered.

Lady Pole passed, in a shimmering velvet cloak the colour of longing; this, too, he tucked into the back of the wardrobe. She did not look precisely as though she was puppeted, but nor could she be dancing of her own accord. Her face bore grim determination to survive, the same hopeless look as Stephen Black's.

For the first time, the walls he had constructed around his suspicion of Lady Pole's suffering began crumbling. Ignoring her plight no longer sufficed, for he could not ignore what was in front of his very eyes. He could not hide away from the consequences of his action. He had to watch her dance, with the gentleman with the thistle-down hair, with other fairies who surely must be just as bad. Dance after dance, it must be. And then to wake up with your feet sore and aching, the way he woke up with sore arms and cracked hands. Sleep had no rest for her, he knew that now.

As he was lead by invisible strings back to scrubbing, he wondered again why Stephen Black was here. Had he been kidnapped? It had not occurred to Mr Norrell that fairies could devise a way to kidnap someone in spirit and yet leave them in their home in body. He must be feeling as Lady Pole did -- or, perhaps, worse, for no one had enchanted him, and yet enchanted he was.

Mr Norrell was extremely surprized to find himself feeling sorry for some one other than himself.

With that sorrow came the guilt that he had been crushing. It was his fault that Lady Pole had been coming here for so many years, dancing and waking and dancing and waking, trapped in a broken-down mansion with a fairy who saw humans as mere instruments of his whims. Perhaps if he had not called the gentleman with the thistle-down hair into the world, Stephen Black would not have been kidnapped either.

He tried not to think of it, though he was not very successful, for there was very little distraction in washing walls. But in the morning, of course, he could feel nothing at all.

-

Something was wrong with Hurtfew. It was grown over, filled with dust and leaves, the walls caving in, the ceilings cracked.

Childermass wandered through the halls, trying to find the library. It was vitally important that he find the library. Mr Norrell would not survive unless he found the library. But the labyrinth wouldn't let him in. Rose-vines were dragging at his feet, thorns pressing into his legs. He could feel blood trickling down them slowly, but he didn't have the time to stop. He had to find the library.

Mr Norrell was there beside him suddenly, walking step for step with him. The rose vines didn't tug at his legs; they let him go. But then, thought Childermass, he had no blood in him, being dead. They wouldn't have any need to prick him.

"You're too slow," said Mr Norrell impatiently. His lips and mouth moved in a disjointed way that would have been comical in waking life. Here, now, it was terrifying. It was not Mr Norrell. "You're too slow, and you're too late."

"Please, give me a few more minutes," said Childermass. "I can find it."

Mr Norrell gave an impatient sigh. "It's too late, I've already told you. I have no blood, you see?" He pointed to his chest, to the gaping hole which was no longer bleeding, only crusted with old, dark blood. "You can't bring it back. You've lingered to long."

He sounded so exactly like Mr Norrell should, the way Mr Norrell did when scolding Childermass for something inconsequential, that Childermass was almost fooled. But the mouth was moving wrong.

"I can give it back to you," he said. "You only have to wait a little longer. Just until I find the library."

"You won't find it; I've hidden it. The thorns will stop you before you can make it."

"Why did you make it so difficult, sir?" said Childermass, pausing to pull some thorns out of his legs.

"It would have been easier if you'd been faster," said Mr Norrell petulantly. Childermass realized that they were in London. If he wanted to get to Hurtfew, he would have to ride all the way to Yorkshire, and how was he to find the library in time? How could he have wasted so much time looking here? He began to look around for his riding-boots, but the thorns tugged and tugged at him. Mr Norrell was not here anymore, and the thorns were growing taller. If he could only get free and find his riding-boots. If he could only get to Hurtew.

Childermass woke to dawn twilight and the annoyed realization that his subconscious was not very subtle at all.

But obvious though the nightmare was, he couldn't shake it. The way Mr Norrell's mouth had moved, not quite under his own power. The sense of helplessness. The powerlessness.

Childermass had had enough of being powerless. He had to do _something._

-

The study was not the most atmospheric place for magic. It was warm and a little crowded with all the papers and books that Childermass needed to do his daily work. The candle-stub and the fresh flowers on the desk looked out of place, leftovers from bygone days. But it was the only place Childermass could be sure of not being bothered. The curtains were drawn, the door was locked.

The ritual was still clear as day in his mind. The trouble, of course, was that he did not know what name to call.

After a moment's thought, instead of an invocation, he said: "I greet thee, Lord, and bid thee welcome into my heart."

The candle flickered and went out. In the darkness, Childermass strained his ear for the rustle of feathers, the flap of wings. He strained his ear for a voice.

There was nothing.

The curtains moved a little. Was that a wind? Was there someone here? Childermass's eyes, slowly adjusting, thought they made out a dim shape in the corner of the room.

He said again: "I greet thee, Lord, and bid thee welcome into my heart."

Another movement of the curtains, and then nothing.

There was no one there.

Childermass twitched the curtain aside, and left the study. He understood now why Mr Norrell was so angry. If he had felt like this, time after time, there was no wonder it would curdle into bitterness.

Mr Norrell was waiting outside, holding a letter. "There you are. I was looking for you. What were you doing?"

He ought to have been angry, thought Childermass. In the mood, suddenly, to goad Mr Norrell further, he said "I was trying to summon the Raven King."

"A very foolish notion. What did you want him for?"

"To rescue you."

Mr Norrell tutted again. "Even more foolish. Why would he bestir himself to the aid of someone who forsook his name long ago? Look at this letter."

Childermass glanced at it, and gave it back. "Leave it on my desk, I'll see to it later," he said. "I've got something else to do."

Mr Norrell frowned. "What else?" he said. But Childermass did not answer; he left.

At Sir Walter Pole's house a short journey later, Childermass asked to see Stephen Black, and was shewn into the servants' hall. Stephen Black, he observed when he came in, had the same blank eyes and tired lines that Mr Norrell did. He moved listlessly, with an aimless slowness that suggested his limbs were twice as heavy as they ought to have been. He had the restless look that someone very efficient gets when they are unable to fulfill their usual routine, as when they are ill. He must have had it, Childermass thought, for a long time.

There was a flicker of surprize in his eyes when he saw Childermass.

"You are the magician's servant," he said. "What do you want of me?"

"I want to help you. Or, more precisely, I want to help my master and you at the same time."

Stephen Black's face grew still more drawn. "I cannot explain to you the affliction I labour under. I have tried."

"I know. He is under the same affliction."

Stephen Black raised his eyebrows. "So that is why; he is like Lady Pole. Who brought him back? Was it Jonathan Strange?"

"I did."

"I did not know you were a magician."

"No one did," said Childermass, unconcerned. "It is how I wish it."

Stephen sighed, and sagged against the wall, a movement Childermass thought was probably uncharacteristic of him. "Then there is no hope for it," he murmured. "No hope for it at all."

"You thought the magician's death would end the enchantment."

"Lady Pole suggested it."

"It wouldn't have, in any case. The bargain was with the fairy, and only the fairy's death is certain to end it, if any thing is. That is, in fact, what I have come about."

Stephen seemed, with an effort, to rouse himself to alertness. "You have a way?"

"Not yet. But I will find one. I should like to convince Lady Pole to assist me as well, but I doubt she would see me. Besides that, she is gone to Yorkshire." Childermass had arranged this, with the particular view to making sure she was very far away from Mr Norrell's present location, and that someone trustworthy was guarding her. "Perhaps you would convince her of the scheme, when you see her...elsewhere."

Stephen's eyes were wary. Childermass supposed he had learned through experience to distrust magicians, and he could not begrudge him that. "If you can think of a way to achieve it, then I will convince her to attempt it. Understand, however, that my goal is not to free Norrell. My goal is to free Lady Pole, who has suffered so cruelly at his hand, and myself."

"That is quite fair."

"In the meantime, I have duties to perform," said Stephen, "And I am very tired."

Childermass bowed, and made his exit. He had not been turned away, and that was something.

-

18 January 1816

There was always Strange. After all, that was what he was there for. But Childermass found him of very little help. It was true that he accompanied Childermass and Mr Norrell to the library, and yet he was in a strange mood: restless and unable to wok for more than a few minutes at a time before switching to something else. Childermass supposed that was grief at work. He could not blame Strange, but it was strikingly inconvenient.

Mr Norrell could not be roused for very long. When given something to do, he would work faithfully at it for some time, and then gradually his hand would still, and his eyes would go blank, and he would sit, motionless, until some one recalled him to himself. Then the cycle would repeat.

He could not, of course, speak of his predicament; he would not even tell fairy-tales anymore. All he would do was murmur that it was all his own doing, and then subside. Childermass couldn't tell if he was suffused with guilt, or too frightened by the things that came from his mouth, or both.

Childermass needed another magician, and he could only think of one who might be able to help him.

The letter he wrote to Mr Segundus was as brief as he could make it: an outline of the true facts of Mr Norrell's demise, and all that he knew about the enchantment on Lady Pole and Stephen Black. He explained his difficulty, and why he needed help. He said that he understood Mr Segundus's understandable distaste for Mr Norrell's method, but begged Mr Segundus to assist him, for the good of the two innocent victims, if nothing else.

He received a note which must have been written the next day: it said only "Of course I will. Tell me what to do."

-

20 January 1816

Lost-Hope was glittering with dozens of candles tonight; Mr Norrell was to stay in the ballroom, relight the ones that went out, and clean up the wax from those that dripped. He did not remember being told this; he simply woke up, and found himself scrubbing up a dribble of wax from the floor.

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair was already dancing with a small brown-haired woman in a shimmering white gown. There was something familiar about her, but, after a moment's thought, Mr Norrell decided she was too short to be Lady Pole. He returned his attention to the candles, and took up a spill to light one that had gone out.

The evening wound on, with the endless quality it always had. There seemed to be no time in this place, no sense of minutes passing. There was only an eternal moment that wound on, and on, and on. No matter how much you wished for respite, no matter how much you begged for the tick of a clock, there was never anything but now.

A candle flickered in his peripheral vision. Mr Norrell looked up. The gentleman with the thistle-down hair was dancing with Lady Pole, now, and the brown-haired lady was standing against the wall, watching with an expression of concern. As he moved towards the flickering candle, and therefore closer to her, Mr Norrell realized with a spinning lurch that it was Mrs Strange.

What would Mrs Strange be doing here? Was that what Lady Pole had meant when she had warned him to stay away? Surely, the dead did not all go to fairy-balls when they die. In fact, in the Raven King's time, a great many Christians had been kidnapped alive...

Mrs Strange looked up, and caught sight of his face. She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion and looked around. Seeing no-one paying attention to her, she gestured at him.

Mr Norrell's body was presently sufficiently under his control to allow him to come closer, after he had dealt with the candle.

"Mr Norrell, what are you doing here?" she asked.

Mr Norrell did not know how to answer this question succinctly. She seemed to dismiss the question with a shake of her head and asked instead, "Is my husband here? Does he know that I am here?"

"No. Our meeting is, I fear, an accident."

"Tell him--" said Mrs Strange.

But another candle spluttered, and Mr Norrell did not find out what message she wanted to convey to Strange. He had no chance to return to her before the morning.

-

Mr Norrell entered the library in something approaching a rush. This was so unusual for him at all, let alone now, that Strange, who was working on some blockades for the navy, and Childermass, who was writing letters, looked up to see what was happening. There were papers in his hand, which he discarded on the table. Childermass rose to look at them; they were Latin spells.

"No, do not bother about them," said Mr Norrell. "i have tried to write it down, but it has not worked.

"Tried to write what down?"

"In the summer of 1242, the Raven King's men went to London to see the Southern King. They brought with them a fairy host to help, they said, with the Crusades. But the host was not all it seemed. Its leader was a cunning creature, a fairy who had been in the Raven King's host for a great many years. No!" Mr Norrell shut his mouth with a click.

Strange rose too, suddenly alert. The scent of roses was in the air, though where it was coming from Childermass could not have said.

"Childermass," said Mr Norrell urgently, his hand on Childermass's sleeve, "Childermass, listen closely. Listen _. I did not enchant Mrs Strange_."

For a moment, Childermass did not understand what Mr Norrell meant. Then it bloomed in his head, cold as ice.

"You have seen Mrs Strange?"

Strange leaned closer, his eyes wide. "Where?" he demanded. "How? Was she living?"

"There was a woman with seven sons--no! No. She bade them take a cow to market--oh! god, what have I done? What have I done to myself, and to them?"

Childermass took hold of Mr Norrell's hand and steered him to a chair. Mr Norrell sat down, and rubbed his other hand against the arm, his face twisted and distraught. It was more emotion than Childermass had seen him show in weeks. His hand was tight on Childermass's, squeezing it white.

Childermass gave him a moment or two to compose himself. "Have you seen Mrs Strange? Don't try to answer, only nod or shake your head."

Mr Norrell nodded.

"Where?" said Strange again, pressing up behind Childermass.

"Yes or no questions only, sir," said Childermass.

"Did you see her in the fairy's house?"

Mr Norrell nodded.

Strange wrenched away and ran a hand through his hair. "I should have known," he muttered. "I should have guessed. Mr Norrell, please, is she well? Is she dead?"

Mr Norrell shrugged. "The association between fairies and the dead has, of course, been speculated for years," he began. He could not finish, for Strange made a soft noise of pain and sat down in a chair. Mr Norrell's face softened, and then became blank again. Childermass's hopes, briefly raised, trickled away.

"Have you seen any other dead people there?" he asked Mr Norrell. Mr Norrell shook his head.

"And we know there are at least three other live people there," Childermass pointed out. "Therefore the likelihood is that she, too, is alive."

"But Mr Norrell and Lady Pole were dead."

"Stephen Black was not. He was only spirited away. Perhaps, sir, your wife was the same."

Strange gazed up at the ceiling. "The water," he said, "the black water. Mr Norrell, is there not--such a thing as a changeling? A sort of creature meant to replace someone a fairy had stolen, which would die after only a few days?"

"Children, generally, but I suppose the principle could be applied to a grown person," Mr Norrell murmured.

"That must be it," said Strange. He drew his hands down his face and took a deep breath. "How could I have been so stupid? I should have noticed, of course I should have."

Childermass began to utter a word of caution, but before he could, Strange had stood and strode over to the mirror over the mantle. With a few words, it went dark and liquid, strangely compelling.

"Sir, no!" said Childermass, reaching for Strange's arm, but he was too late. In a twinkling, Strange was through the mirror.

The library door opened; Lascelles, apparently drawn by Childermass's exclamation, appeared. Childermass just had time to see him rush into the room, brandishing a pistol, before Childermass himself plunged into the mirror after Strange.

-

Lascelles watched Childermass disappear and looked around to Mr Norrell, clutching the mantelpiece. He had that dead look he had recently acquired, and so Mr Lascelles could not tell if he was frightened, or angry, or triumphant.

"What happened?" he asked Mr Norrell.

"They have gone onto the king's roads," murmured Mr Norrell. "They shall be lost and I shall never see them again."

This was all to the better, in Lascelles' opinion. But, as he stared at the dark mirror, a thought  to him. 'It is certain', he told himself, 'that Childermass and Strange would conspire to do Mr Norrell harm, and perhaps even to damage my position with Mr Norrell. And, after all, they are unarmed and I am not. If I find them, I could dispose of them and tell Mr Norrell they were lost.'

"I shall follow them and bring them back to you, sir," he said.

"Mr Lascelles, I urge you not to be rash. The possibility of becoming lost--"

But, drawn by the thought of defeating two enemies at once, Lascelles stepped into the mirror. Mr Norrell had called it the king's roads, and so he had expected a grand and elegant pathway, wide and well-lined with paving-stones. But the path here was narrow and dusk-lit, cracked with age. 'Really it is like a broken-down country road,' he said, looking around scornfully. 'If that is what the Raven King's accomplishments come to, I see why Mr Norrell thinks his memory should be extinguished.'

At first it seemed to him as though he was in a city, surrounded by tumbledown stone buildings, with a castle in the distance. The castle was ahead of him, and yet as he walked, it seemed to grow more distant, not nearer. Perhaps the road was winding somehow, or perhaps he had underestimated how far away it was.

Gradually, the castle went out of sight entirely, and his surroundings began to look more like the countryside. The narrow road turned into a weed-choked path. Thorns tugged at his clothes, as if warning him to go back, and vines caught his feet, as if trying to stop him in his tracks.

Lascelles walked on. The path wound on into a wood, and at the entrance to the wood was curious statue: a woman with her arms outstretched. In one hand was a stone eye, and in the other a stone heart.

Lascelles entered the wood.

-

There was something about the King's Roads that seemed vaguely familiar, as if Childermass had seen them in a dream. He had little time to notice, however, for he only just caught a glimpse of Strange disappearing down a wrought iron staircase and had to run after him. He passed columns and statues and hurried through grand halls, over bridges, once through a wide field that shook in a wind Childermass could not feel. At last, he caught up to Strange and caught him by his coat. Strange struggled, but Childermass grabbed hold of his arm.

"Let me go! I must rescue my wife!" said Strange.

"You cannot go and rescue her on your own." said Childermass, holding fast to Strange's arm. "You will fail."

"I cannot leave her there!"

"If you go now, you risk endangering her and Mr Norrell and Lady Pole and Stephen Black. What good will it do you to go and get yourself captured or killed? There will be no one at all to save Mrs Strange. Come back, and we will make a plan."

"But if he does her harm, and I am not there--"

"What harm will he do her in a day or two that he has not done already? If he had wanted to kill her, she would be dead; if he has some sinister use for her, he has already done it." Strange went very red and his fist clenched. A misstep, perhaps; Childermass tried to correct it. "We will go back to Mr Norrell, and we will ask how she is, as best we are able. If Mr Norrell indicates that she is being ill-used, you may go crashing through the King's Roads, trying to find the domain of this fairy. But if not, we will create some better plan, something with a chance of success."

Strange took a deep breath, and his shoulders settled. For a moment, he closed his eyes, and then with a shudder he nodded. Childermass let go his arm.

"Can we follow the road back?" he asked Strange.

Strange gave a pained smile. "Backwards and forward are rarely...straightforward, here. I don't suppose you made particular note of the way you came?"

"I was a bit too busy chasing you."

"Yes. Well. It is not very straightforward to navigate, but I think perhaps with the both of us we can manage it."

Childermass had more time to observe; indeed, he had too much time. They were forced to chuse their way carefully. Staircases that ought to have went up went down. Statues that seemed to mark the way turned out to be twin to other statues on other roads. Paths forked where Childermass had noticed no fork before. The dim light made everything difficult, too: objects in the distance would not resolve themselves until very near, where they suddenly came into clarity.

At last, though, they came to the mirror, and stepped through. Strange's hands were shaking as he reached out to press against it, perhaps testing that it was still open.

In the library, the fire felt extraordinarily warm, and the daylight seemed friendly. It was the first time in months that Childermass had thought of the house on Hanover Square as comfortable, rather than choked with unease.

Mr Norrell blinked in astonishment upon seeing them; again, for a moment, he roused himself to touch both of their arms. "You are not illusions, then," he said wonderingly.

"Where is Mr Lascelles?" said Childermass.

"He went in after you--to find you, he said."

Strange and Childermass looked at each other. "We did not see him," said Strange slowly. "Perhaps he got lost?"

"If the passages are as labyrinthine as you suggest, I do not think we shall see him again," said Mr Norrell. "That is very bad. He is my adviser, and what shall I do if I am thought to have murdered him?"

"They can't produce a body if he doesn't come back," said Childermass cynically. "But perhaps he will return. If we found our way back, he may find his."

Mr Norrell sat down in his chair slowly and gave a great sigh. "How much more will this curse take from me?"

They left the mirror open with a candle burning in front of it for the rest of the day, much to every one's unease, but Lascelles did not come back.

-

Childermass convinced the two magicians to sleep before they decided what to do. As he told them, they would be much better off with a clear head and a fresh mind. They had all had a fright, and were much exhausted.

"I am sorry, sir," he said to Mr Norrell, "That you will have to go back."

Mr Norrell shook his head. "It does not matter," he said. "I knew that I would have to."

It stuck in Childermass's throat.

After they had gone to bed, he quietly took up a sack and filled it with several of Mr Norrell's books on Faerie, fairies, and curses. He crept off to Sir Walter Pole's house, and made his way inside. Some of the skills from his youth were still useful to him.

He had to guess which room belonged to Stephen Black. Finding it eventually, he let himself in and woke him up.

For a split second upon waking, Stephen Black's face was creased with all the anguish and fear and anger and despair he must have been feeling at every moment. Then, as he sat up, it all smoothed out into an expression of dull surprise.

"Childermass," he whispered, "What are you doing here?"

"I am intending to make a move," said Childermass. "Has he come for you yet?"

"Yes, but I will return to Lost-hope as soon as I fall back asleep. What are you going to do?"

"Something stupidly reckless, but nothing which will fall on you if I fail. Can you keep him out of Lost-hope? Perhaps in England?"

"I think so," said Stephen Black. "Yes. I do believe I can. Be careful of yourself; he is more powerful than you know."

Childermass gave a crooked smile. "I often deal in men more powerful than I, yet I usually manage to outsmart them."

Stephen Black took hold of his arm, a gentle and warning grip. "Do not let your guard down. Not even for one moment."

"I won't," said Childermass.

He took the mirror out. It was safer, and besides, the king's roads were the only way to get to Yorkshire fast enough to make a difference.

-

The King's Roads were no less confusing than they had been during the day. Childermass was beginning to get a feel for them, however. You had to pay attention to your instinct more than your eyes; in this respect, it was something like reading the cards. For a time, he closed his eyes and wandered on foot by feeling.

When he opened his eyes again, he could tell he was closer. The road ahead was narrow and overgrown, and it looked to enter a wood. That did not seem right, though Childermass could not be sure. At the entrance to the wood, he saw as he approached, was a stone statue of a woman. In her hands, she held a single eye, and a human heart.

Childermass said to himself that this was not a good sign. He entered the wood with great caution, prepared to turn back.

The wood was filled with corpses, hanging from trees. Some were very new, and some were skeletons, the flesh baked clean off their bones by time and sunlight, not that there was much of that here. There was a castle in the distance; as Childermass drew closer, he could see some one moving, a shadow in one of the windows.

From behind the trees stepped Mr Lascelles.

"I am the Champion of Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart," he said.

"Mr Lascelles? What are you doing here?" said Childermass. He stepped forward, and then hesitated; Lascelles had drawn a pistol.

"I offer challenges to any who approach with the intent of harming or insulting the Lady of the Castle."

"Mr Lascelles," said Childermass. He took a step backwards. There was no light of recognition in Lascelles' eyes, no light even of hatred. It frightened Childermass as Lascelles' vitriol had never done.

"Do you intend to harm or insult the Lady of the Castle?" said Lascelles, aiming his pistol at Childermass.

"No," said Childermass. "I am a servant, bound to return to my master who waits for me. I leave you and your lady in peace."

With this, Lascelles put his pistol down and turned away from Childermass. Childermass hurried back along the path. The pistol did not alarm him, but the sickly face, the vacant eyes...

He had other errands to perform. And there would be no saving Lascelles now.

-

At length, he came to Yorkshire, though how he could tell he did not know. As he kept Starecross Hall in mind, he could feel it drawing closer and closer. It was as though there was a point of light in his mind, growing brighter and brighter.

At last, he stepped out rather abruptly through the drawing-room mirror, landing rather heavily on the floor. The thump would wake someone, no doubt, but he did not have time to worry about that. He made his way quickly through the house, and found Mr Segundus's room. He entered, and put his hand gently but firmly over Mr Segundus's mouth.

Mr Segundus woke with a look of panic, which subsided into confusion when he saw Childermass. "Don't make any noise," said Childermass, "We don't have time."

Mr Segundus nodded, and Childermass took his hand away. "Has something happened?" he whispered, nearly soundless, when his mouth was free. "I received your letter saying that there was nothing very much to do yet and that you would like me to research as much as I could."

"Things have changed," said Childermass. "Mr Segundus. I would like to ask for your help again, after you so generously agreed to assist me before. This will be much more dangerous; I intend to go into Faerie. I do not know if I will come out with my life. But if I do, I hope to come out with the lives of the prisoners trapped there as well."

Mr Segundus's eyes were solemn and shining. He said, "Yes."

-

Mr Segundus had the virtue of not talking when quietness was required, but he was, understandably, full of questions about the King's Roads. "They are real?" he said, looking around himself. "And they lead through the whole kingdom? All three kingdoms?"

"At least two," said Childermass. "I have been to Faerie on them, though quite by accident. I am sure I can find it again, although as for finding the correct kingdom..."

"Have you no spell for that?" said Mr Segundus, his eyes still bright. "I have A Spell For Finding Things Which Have Been Lost."

"Such as faerie-kingdoms?" said Childermass, giving him a doubtful look.

"Such as people," said Mr Segundus. "I am sure I can remember the form of it, if you can supply the focus."

So Childermass thought of Mr Norrell as Mr Segundus cast the spell. He thought of Mr Norrell's sour moods, and his bitterness against the Raven King. He thought of Mr Norrell's dozen fears, the fears Childermass had always soothed. He thought of Mr Norrell's passion for magic, and his irritation with society, and his great love for his library. He thought of Mr Norrell's blood spilling out on the cobblestones, and himself helpless to prevent it. He thought of the way Mr Norrell's hand had felt going cold in his, how his last breath had looked. He thought of the frozen moment of grief he had felt when Mr Norrell died.

At length, Mr Segundus finished, and said the final word. In front of them there was a glimmering path, pale as moonlight and faint as cobwebs.

Mr Segundus stood breathless, his hand faintly outstretched. "Oh," he said, "It worked."

"Did you think it wouldn't?" said Childermass.

"I have never done any magic before," said Mr Segundus. He pressed his hand faintly into the gleaming light. It passed through, ghostlike, shimmering for just a moment on his hand. "Nothing ever worked before."

"Well, you are a magician, and these are the King's Roads," said Childermass. "It stands to reason it would work."

Mr Segundus did not seem to agree. He was still looking at the road with wonder, as if he had never seen any thing so beautiful in his life. Childermass put a hand on his shoulder. "Come, sir," he said, "We are on an errand."

"Yes, of course," said Mr Segundus, and followed Childermass down the path.

-

It was easy to follow the path down the winding roads; few obstacles appeared to trip them, few stairs or hills even appeared. Childermass wondered idly if that meant the Raven King approved of their mission, for he was in no doubt that the king was here, somewhere, wandering. If only in spirit.

As they walked, Childermass explained the plan to Mr Segundus. It was a very simple, and terribly risky, plan: while Stephen kept the fairy occupied, they would go into his house and steal all the sleepers. Childermass would bring them all to London and fortify the house on Hanover-square against enchantment; then he would go and fetch Stephen when he woke and take him into the house. From there, they could find a way to kill the fairy.

Mr Segundus agreed that it was, indeed, an awful risk. But he did not suggest a new plan or turn back. He seemed, indeed, more determined than ever.

The wooded path that had lead into the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart did not reappear. Childermass was glad, for he would hate for Mr Segundus to have seen it.

It was difficult to sense the time passing here, when there was no visible sun to move in the sky, nor any sign of any bird or beast. Childermass felt they walked for hours, but it could have been days, or it could, perhaps, have been only an hour or two.

"It is very curious," said Mr Segundus softly.

"What is, sir?"

"Well, you see, I can always tell what direction I am facing--that is, I can always unless some enchantment is at work. When I first visited your Mr Norrell's house, and he brought us to his library, I could not tell. And now, here, I cannot tell either--but there it was as though the direction was being obscured, and here it is as though there are other directions entirely. I can tell that I am not facing north, or east, or west, or south, but some Other way. Yet what that way is, who can say?"

"You are not in England any more," said Childermass, "and perhaps not on the Earth any more. One cannot blame your mind for growing confused under the circumstances."

"I suppose not," said Mr Segundus.

At last, they came to a cobblestone drive. Distantly they could see that a grand house lay at the end of it. The path in front of them had grown very bright indeed, and at the end of the drive it stopt entirely.

"Before we enter into the fairy's territory, I wish to perform an invocation," said Childermass.

"Invoking who?"

"John Uskglass."

Mr Segundus's eyes widened. "Will he answer us?"

"I do not know, but we are on his roads, after all."

So it was that they performed the invocation with a small cup Childermass had brought along for seeing visions in, a match, and some strange berries they gathered on the side of the road. They had an argument about which name to use; Childermass said that the King would do since they were on the King's Roads, but Segundus said that it was not specific enough. Childermass said that the King had no true name, and that it would have to be the Nameless King. Segundus said that it should be the Nameless Slave as well, to be safe, since they were in such proximity to Faerie, and that was who had been in Faerie. To this, Childermass agreed.

They performed the invocation of the Nameless King, the Nameless Slave. They gave to him England, and the King's Roads, which were by rights his; they asked for his help.

It did not seem to do any thing much, but, they agreed, if it helped, perhaps they would not know until they were in the house.

-

Stephen woke again in Lost-hope not long after Childermass had left. He was always tired these days, and rarely had trouble falling asleep. That, in a way, was part of the problem.

"Oh! there you are," said the gentleman with the thistle-down hair. "I thought I might have to go and fetch you."

Stephen bowed. "I was wondering as I fell asleep, sir, if I might ask you to shew me some of your victories," he said.

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair looked interested, much to Stephen's relief. It was always difficult to tell whether any given request would be met with delight, or with scorn, or with some whim that would make things more difficult. "What victories?"

"Perhaps you might shew me some places in England where you have fought battles."

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair nodded. "A capital idea! The ball will be very dull to-night, and we should find better entertainment at an old battlefield than here. Come!"

In the wink of an eye, they were in England, in a grove of trees long since grown over with moss. The gentleman with the thistle-down hair gestured around himself. "Here is where my host fought its first battle for the Raven King," he began.

The story about the host was very long, and very bloody. Maidens were danced to death and left with no blood in them, and young men had their stomachs cut open. Then he took Stephen to another place where, he said, he had fought against the southern King and won. The king's men had ambushed his, and their retribution for this had been terrible...

On and on the fairy's stories went. The gruesomeness and the violence wearied Stephen's battered soul inexpressibly. He felt as though he could not bear any more violence; there had been so much inflicted upon him, and on other people. He wanted to escape from the gentleman with the thistle-down hair, and from the world where all of these things had happened. He wanted to be safe.

After several hours of these stories, the crumb of hope Stephen had treasured dissolved. John Childermass, then, was precisely like the other magicians. Perhaps he had not acted after all, or perhaps he was already dead. He had subjected Stephen to a litany of horrors with no reason; but, then, Stephen supposed that after so many others, a few more horrors could not do any more harm in the long run. Stephen as already half-dead, and could not die. It could not be worse.

And then, the gentleman with the thistle-down hair turned and tensed. "Some one is in my kingdom," he said. "Some one who should not be there."

"Are you sure?" said Stephen. That must be Childermass; he must keep the gentleman with the thistle-down hair away at all costs.

"Yes," said the fairy, his mouth twisting into a snarl. "It is a Christian: someone with one of the magicians. A magician of some considerable power himself, I sense. We must find him, Stephen, find him and kill him."

Revulsion and weariness rose in Stephen. "Please, sir, I beg of you, no more killing."

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair ignored him and looked around. "Do you suppose I should trap him in a tree? I do not believe the argument is as good as a carpet, but perhaps it might do. Or, indeed, perhaps we should go and fetch a carpet."

"Please, do not kill him," said Stephen. He felt tears coming to his eyes; he wanted so desperately for no more violence to be done. He wanted to reach out to the sky and ask it to trap the gentleman with the thistle-down hair, he wanted to ask the trees to hold him fast, he wanted the river to sweep him away. He ached to reach out the world and be heard, to be understood, to be able to stop all of the pain.

And, suddenly, the trees seemed to be bending to hear him. The sky seemed to be listening. The river seemed to silence its noise, to bend itself towards him. He reached himself out, and he was answered with a question. One by one, they asked him.

Stephen said, "Yes."

-

The cobblestone drive was cracked and grass was poking through the spaces between stones. Walking down, they had to be careful not to trip. Cracks seemed to appear right where one most wanted to walk, as if made to unbalance one.

The door to the house was open; there was some kind of party going on. Childermass and Mr Segundus ventured in, moving quietly. Although they knew they could not escape detection, they hoped to remain unnoticed for perhaps a few moments.

There was no-one in the halls as they walked. Finding the ball was easy; they followed the music to its source. It was music so melancholy, so dripping with regret and heartache, that you could not help but be pulled towards it.

The ballroom was filled with fairies of all shapes and sizes. They were dressed in beetles, in gowns covered with eyes, in suits the colour of the north wind, in frocks the colour of ruth. They were dancing a dance that Childermass had never seen before, but which they all seemed to know the steps to.

Lady Pole was dancing with a woman in a pale cobweb dress; Mrs Strange with a man dressed clothed all in shadow. Mr Norrell was polishing a candleholder and, by the look of it, grumbling to himself. There was no sign of the gentleman with the thistle-down hair.

Mr Segundus went to fetch Lady Pole. Her eyebrows raised as she saw him, but she did not look hopeful. Childermass detached Mrs Strange from her partner by the device of cutting in; once he had done so he found himself knowing the steps of the dance, his feet moving without his knowledge.

"You have come to rescue us?" said Mrs Strange.

"Aye, if I can stop dancing."

"It will not be long until this dance is over."

And it was not. Lady Pole and Mrs Strange hurried towards each other, hands outstretched.

Mr Norrell had caught sight of Childermass by this time. He was frozen, the candleholder in his hand almost dropping to the floor.

"He kidnapped you too?" he whispered as Childermass walked towards him.

"No, sir. I am here to rescue you."

Mr Norrell's eyes widened. "You should not have come! It is too dangerous! You cannot be captured too!"

"I could not leave you," said Childermass.

Mr Norrell's face was very pale. "Come, sir," said Childermass, "If we want to leave, we had better do it quickly, before he returns."

But as he rejoined the group, a disturbance began. There was a murmuring among the fairies. At first it was too soft to understand, and then it rose in volume.

"The king is coming. The king is coming."

Segundus urged Lady Pole onward. Lady Pole took hold of Mrs Strange's hand, and prepared to run for the mirror. But they had to fight their way through a crowd of fairies.

"The king is coming. The king is coming."

Childermass pressed Mr Norrell up ahead of him, one hand light on his side, and shielded his back with his own body. The crowd was too thick to pass.

"The king is coming. The king is coming."

The crowd became a tide, sweeping them forward, away from where they needed to go.

The door to the ballroom of Lost-hope opened, and Stephen Black entered -- or, perhaps, the person who had previously been Stephen Black. There was a silver diadem on his head; he was still in his neat black clothes. He looked refreshed and restored, as though many long years of toil and care had been washed away. He looked around Lost-hope, and slowly, one by one, the crowd of fairies began to bow. It swept backwards in a wave, until the whole hall was kneeling, waiting to hear him speak.

"This house," said the Nameless King, "is disordered and dirty. Its inhabitants have idled away their days in pointless pleasures and in celebrations of past cruelties -- things that ought not to be remembered, let alone celebrated. I have often observed it and often regretted it. All these faults, I shall in time set right."

-

Through a mirror in Yorkshire, Mr Segundus and Lady Pole tumbled out into Starecross Hall. When they picked themselves up and investigated the house, Lady Pole's sleeping body was not in the bed. Whatever division had separated her dream-self and her waking-self was gone; her hand was whole again.

She was so incandescent with rage that she wanted to rush off to write to the Government immediately. There was no doubt in Mr Segundus's mind that she would succeed in rousing most of the Government by morning, and as well she might. Mr Segundus sat down at his desk, and began to write an account of all that had happened.

After a while, he took him a spell that had been on his desk for many years -- a spell for joining together things which had been parted. It had never worked before, though he had wasted many clay pipes in trying it.

He took a piece of paper and tore it neatly down the middle, and then he cast the spell. The paper was whole again.

Mr Segundus sat at his desk with a soft and reverent smile.

-

Through a mirror in London, Mrs Strange and Childermass and Mr Norrell tumbled out into the house on Hanover Square. Arabella immediately ran up to the guest room her husband was in, and met him halfway, coming down the stairs; he had been awakened by the sound of her laughter, her joy.

Childermass and Mr Norrell lingered near the mirror. Mr Norrell's ring finger had been restored, Childermass noticed. He kept rubbing it, as if the sense of it there was unfamiliar.

"Well," said Mr Norrell softly, "You found me."

"Aye, and what will you do now?"

"I do not know. Mr Lascelles is lost, and my reputation will be ruined, for Lady Pole is sure to want to tell her story. I suppose I should like to go on doing magic, but I do not know where to begin."

"An apology might do some good," said Childermass. "It is not, I know, your usual method, but perhaps it would be a beginning."

Mr Norrell nodded. "Will you stay with me?" he asked.

Childermass said, "Yes."

  
  



End file.
